Simb Bakkani Super Heavyweight (Completed)

[QuoteTheRaven]

Mossano inherited Muscle Pride Rock Gym in Bangkok. He became an IFBB Pro, then Mr. Thailand, and then opened Muscle Pride Rock Gym 2.

At 21, Simb was born. Muscle Pride Rock Gym sang with celebration. Patrons — thin and lithe to well-muscled hunks in string tanks and hoodies — gathered around he and his wife Sarai. Mossano’s pharmacological coach held Simb aloft. The gym speakers played joyous music filled with rhythms and flutes.

As a kid, Simb spent his time running around Muscle Pride Rock with his best friend Naylon. Everyone knew them. All treated them with joy. Simb had no thoughts about his place in the world.

 

CHAPTER ONE — BETRAYAL

Now, on a day in Simb’s eighteenth year, Simb and Naylon lounge near the juice bar. As they lounge, Simb’s Uncle Scarab shows up. Scarab is seven years older than Simb, and devotedly bodybuilds. He is outwardly obsequious toward Simb while also giving off a resentful vibe. Simb thinks that’s the way for uncles on diets, restrictions, and heavy lifting schedules. 

Scarab talks to the teens. He asks them what kind of music they like. When they mention a local group, he tells them it’s a huge coincidence that that group is playing at a place called Parrot Bar. He says he has passes to that bar and that they can see their favorite band if they leave to go now. The guys can’t believe the coincidence and want to go and so they do.

The whole thing is a lie.

 

When they get there, instead of saying Parrot Bar it says Parrot Gay Bar. This gives pause, only because they are not into sexual things yet. But they want to see the band. Inside, there is no band. Instead two twenty year old hoodlums pay attention to them. The hoodlums are so skinny ribs show through their tees. They are as heavy-headed as hyenas with open-hanging mouths.

“We are Shen and Ban,” the jackally two snigger, “You are the son of the best muscle man in Thailand aren’t you? We recognize you. Are you here because?…. because you like sex with males, no?” 

Simb and Naylon feel uneasy, more uneasy even than from the dancers grinding crotch-packed near-naked muscles.  

Simb and Naylon try to pretend they are cool as it is important to accept all people. That is what Mossano and Simb’s mother Sarai always teach.

The manager at the Parrot Gay Bar notices the youth and suspects something is amiss. He calls the MRP Gym and the manager, Zazar, answers. Zazar, who is homosexual himself and expressive in his personality, flaps off to tell Mossano right away. 

 

Mossano goes to the bar and rescues the boys. Mossano is upset with Simb for going to a drinking place and one that focuses on any kind of sex. He scolds Simb and Simb feels bad about his judgment. But Mossano forgives Simb. Mossano also explains to Simb that some of Mossano’s best friends are gay. 

He adds, “with the genetics you have from me and mom, I want you to end up my size and condition. If you do as I do, eating, the heavy iron lifting, the gear.” Mossano continues, “What I want to say is when you grow up and become as I am, you will play a special role — pedestaled by men and women, wanted by all.”

Simb says ok. He doesn’t know what that all means or whether he wants that. He’s still a kid. Drives can be dormant until nature fully spigots testosterone and awakens a man to his real wants.

 

However, meanwhile, during Mossano and Simb’s conversation, Scarab has found the 20-year-old shady fag beanpoles. You might think he is there to berate them and force them to understand more about what is appropriate with people of different ages. But Scarab has a nefarious character and only self-serving purposes in mind. He has designs — designs of no longer being lesser in his brother’s shadow, to usurping his brother’s titles, to gaining his brother’s businesses and all that his brother has. 

As part of his plan to do that, he makes an overture to the youth Shen and Ban. He will freely service them at MRP Gym. But they must help frame Mossano for a crime. 

The two are alarmed at the idea of doing something of the kind. But then they feel Scarab’s enlarged biceps that rise as balls, hard as rock. Scarab talks dominant fetished stuff about how swollen his pecs are, how his ass jacks and how intensely good he feels. He tells them he must grow bigger, dominating little fucks, that he’ll make his brother seem fucking small. He wants to transform the two weasels too. He thinks they could all fuck each other as big muscle men. The two hypnotized fags both are almost orgasming as he makes their dicks so hard with his dreams. They agree to help Scarab.

 

In the setup to the framing scam, Scarab goes to Simb the next week. Scarab dishonestly tells Simb that Mossano wants Simb to take a package of steroids (legal in Thailand) to the other branch of the gym. Simb is only 18 and never been given a task like this before so he is uncertain at first. But Scarab is convincing.

 

Simb heads out in the streets with the messenger bag unaware. What it really contains is cocaine, heroine and drugs heavily punishable even for someone his age to possess. 

 

As soon as Simb has left, Scarab gathers up Shen and Ban and they go to Mossano.  Scarab acts as though he’s collared the gay twenty year olds, physically showing his superiority to the pimpled scarecrows, manhandling them with true get-off brawn, and acting as though he’s threatening them and forcing them to confess what they will say. They almost give the whole thing away because Mossano’s muscles are so beautiful. His abs rise and fall, coil and fold as he talks. They have never seen the great Mossano, champion of all of Thailand and seventh place finisher in the Olympia of the world. Mossano is bigger than they imagined a person could be. They’ve never seen someone of such impossibly increased size — shoulders that mountain and arm girth 20+ inches around. In front of the steroid-massed giant, scrawny little undeveloped Shen and Ban suddenly stiff solid ones in their pants. 

But Mossano is so familiar and used to that kind of thing that it doesn’t register as a warning flag. 

Shen and Ban tell Mossano, as though confessing, that they have given Simb an illegal package, using Simb as an unsuspecting mule. But, they explain, he has to be “saved” for they’ve heard a police trap is set for the other gym.

Mossano is furious. He will charge to help his son. He roars at the scum that have come to him. Scarab sneers and growls at the scum too. He enjoys the chance to act vile towards anyone, even his own accomplices — getting a charge always to be superior where he can be. He holds each of the guys hands behind their respective backs, lusty with the comprehension that he literally has the physical power to restrain them simultaneously each with a single fist. The muscles in Scarab’s shoulders flex in displaying expression as he shifts to subtle poses — pose after pose — while he holds them.

Scarab then says aloud to Mossano, “Have no fear, brother, these two drug dealers will join us and I will force them to play their role.” Then Scarab smiles with a truly carnivorous look. His traps pop definitionally around his neck. 

Mossano says “good.” And then before they leave MRP GYM, he gives the keys for both gyms plus the code for the wall safe to Scarab. Mossano says, “I’ve never given these to you before, but I’m not sure how long resolving this will take at the other gym, and at the police station, and in the court…. Plus I have to see about getting these two young drug runners into some kind of reform. It’s best that someone in good trust has control until I am back.” 

Scarab thinks quickly, “Can you text that quickly to my phone as well?” he says slyly, “In case it does take you a long time and anyone asks if you left me in charge.” Mossano suspecting nothing, sends the text.

 

They thunder across town as a group on motorbikes. Heads whip tracking the massbeast of Mossano hulking upon his machine. The pure masculinity of such massive muscularity has those passed by gaping.

As they go, Mossano doesn’t spot Simb anywhere. As they near MRP II Gym, his concern grows. When they get to MRPII Gym, they still haven’t found Simb. They head across the parking lot, Mossano in the lead. 

Scarab falls purposefully behind. Scarab pulls the two scum surreptitiously aside and tells them in a quick, low sinister growl “Get lost. I will take it from here.” 

He pulls one of their heads into his juiced pecs and lets the pup nuzzle there briefly in the Dianabol-responsible cleft, even allowing him to lick quickly and wantingly at his nipple. Scarab whispers, “This is nothing, you fag. I’m going to have you tit fuck mountainous monster pecs that are inhuman when I’m 100 pounds bigger and more dominant than a god.” Then he gives the guy a command, “make sure that sniveling little boy Simb… never comes around MRP Gyms again.”

 

Scarab races after Mossano and catches up just past the door. Inside, there are seven cops. Eighteen year old Simb is in their grasp. Simb is so young and fragile —flustered, lanky, rattled, distressed. The currier bag sits emptied of its illegal contents on the counter. The head cop, a commissioner, turns and says to those arriving, “This is tremendously serious. This delinquent will be going to jail for a long time.”

Mossano does not recognize that the scum have not come in. He says, “No no, once you have the explanation of who is really responsible you will let him go.” 

The commissioner says, “Yes if we are given another responsible we will let this one go.” 

He says this because earlier the two scum had come to the police station claiming to be informants who could help them capture Mr Thailand who they said had been behind illegal drug running for a long time. The police officers on duty had all chorused, “THE Mr. Thailand? Mossano Bakkani? He who has a vee taper to a thirty two inch waist and weighs 278 pounds with arms that are 21 inches around?”

Each officer knew the most famous muscular body in Thailand. So famous no one else had a fraction of the same public recognition. It is ubiquitous what the hypersexual, hypermighted silhouette of Mossano Bakkani looks like. All those overly male police officers are familiar with  how the small posers of the king lounge over his ass and wrap atop his horse cock.

“Yes,” the scum had said, “that is the one.” The pulse rates of those officers back at the station had gone up at even the mention of a man so self-endowed and huge.

 

Now here in front of many of those officers, is the actual Mr Thailand. He is a man who simply can’t be real. His shoulders simply stretch too far and aloft from his neck. His torso circles at every level with immeasurability. He is too rockishly dense, too cord-thewed, and too beefily enlarged. He has muscles with more muscles on top.

Mossano turns like an aircraft carrier, his legs like temple columns. He looks to have the scum confess but sees Scarab standing all alone in his stringer with his little roid-hungry physique on display. “They got away,” mouths Scarab syrupy and with what he hopes looks like a pained shrug.

“Why are you looking around?,” the commissioner says to Mossano, “why don’t you just tell us the truth so that your son here can be let go?”

Mossano sees the situation and walks to Scarab. His championship bodybuilder body imposes in on Scarab. Mossano’s monumental excess presses predatorily over Scarab’s lesser swole. Mossano whispers to Scarab,  “I am going to explain to the officers that this crime was really done by the two drug runners. You will back me up, right?” he says warningly, “I need to know.”

Scarab whispers back, “I don’t know what you are talking about. If you insist on such stories you are probably sending your son to a certain long time in jail.”

“That would be a very unfatherly thing to do,” Scarab adds in a cold purr.

 

Mossano understands now that he has been betrayed but must save his son.

He turns to the commissioner and says, “It was not my son, it was me. I lied to him about what was in the bag and told him they were legal anabolic drugs.”

 

The cops descend on Mossano and handcuff him. He is as powerful as Hercules. Reflexive at being confined, he explodes open the chains. He swings his enormous guns. Officers bowl over backward in every direction. The police ogle from the floor, all truly in awe. He is definitively the greatest and one of the most massive men that has ever been in Thailand and currently is one of the top ten most muscular men in the entire world. The commissioner says, “we will handcuff you again, and If you do not cooperate we will also take the boy.”  Mossano turns to look at Scarab. He flexes his might body into a double bicep pose and snorts and growls. He is 40% bigger than Scarab. His torso heaves. His legs thunder with their gargantuan magnitude. It is imposing to behold.  But then Mossano submits to the handcuffing and is taken from the gym.

 

As soon as they leave, Simb runs crying to his uncle. “This can’t be! We have to help get my dad free.”

 

Scarab puts his fists on his hips and raises his chest and shoulders inflating and flexing the mass he has even as it pales to what his older brother just showed. He is going to change that now. He knows he‘s going to grow so much much much bigger than he’s been. He’s the one who will use Mossano’s drugs and money and resources now. The world will see what truly wild use of all three can really do. He won’t restrain himself in any temperate way he thinks his brother has.

He looks at the weak boy and seethes, “You incompetent weakling!  You did this! Your father has been dealing like this for years and never gotten in trouble. It was the source of all his ability to pretend who he was and gain the mass and might that won him awards. You have ruined it and have sent him to jail. I will bring you back to the gym now and tell everyone what you have done. They love your father there.”

Scarab is in full sleazy condescension now and continues, “You will have destroyed him and yourself in their eyes. But maybe if you disappear I can save his reputation and explain it was you. His imprisonment will be forever on your pathetic thin puny weak girlie shoulders but at least the love and reverence of his people can be preserved and you won’t destroy that love.” 

It is lies all lies, but Scarab is filled with festering wile and narcissistic need.

 

Simb sputters. The tears flow. His breathing comes in racking sporadic gasps. He has a scrawny body and is gangly tall. But, mostly in that moment he is just a bereft son, almost a little boy. The moaning continues as he says, “But…. I didn’t mean…. It was all an…… I can’t leave my mother…. Can’t leave Naylon…”

 

Scarab turns from the boy, bored. He has eyes in the mirror then only for himself. He pulls his stringer down low and pushes his workout pants off his bunched underwear.  He admires his torso lean though it is, as defined as it is. And his arms and legs. Yes. He is defined. And has muscular definition. But he will grow grotesquely massive now. Sickly so. And then even far more disgustingly when he wants. Thailand is to have a true new bodybuilding emperor. One taller and more unrestrained in becoming as impossibly gargantuan as he can. He anticipates tapering to an even crazier narrow vee — he’s always had the blessing of narrower wolf hips than Mossano’s hasn’t he. And shoulder skelature just a little broader naturally. He knows in his gut his genetics hold that in store. God he wants to hulk and pose.

“This is all your fault,” Scarab says firmly again to Simb not bothering even to turn around.

Simb’s blubbering peters out until finally Simb simply sniffles, “Yes, I will go.”

 

Simb gathers his wallet and comb from the counter. The police say Simb has to go to protective services until they can sort things out about his home.  Two of the officers leave with Simb in tow.

 

Scarab is alone with the commissioner now. The commissioner is in his mid-50s. He looks like he lifted a weight or two in his glory days. Just the kind of “straight” authority figure who looks susceptible to a transaction he-man to he-man. The commissioner tells the other officers they can leave. Once the gray-haired commissioner is the only remaining official, Scarab leads him to the gym’s office and closes the door.  

Scarab looks at the older man’s height of about 5’9”.

“I thought I might be able to tell you a little bit about my nephew’s home.” Scarab says low and hard.

“That would be completely appropriate to know,” says the commissioner. 

“I don’t like to say this about Mossano because he is my brother,” hisses Scarab, “but his wife and he can’t stay clean.”

“Is that right,” says the commissioner, “Heroine and Cocaine?”

“Yes?… Yes, of course. Those two drugs and so many more….you should think of them as using whatever would keep a couple permanently in jail, would keep a teenage son from returning home.” 

Scarab leans back on the edge of the desk. His legs splay in the loose-crotched fitness pants but he knows his thighs are developed enough and muscular enough for the dominant twenty five year old that he is. He balls his hands into fists and slowly raises them up in front of himself as though doing a preacher lift. His biceps curl into 17.75” swells. He eyes the commissioner and then each veiny bi in turn. And then he eyes the commissioner once again.

The commissioner says, “Of course, we’d need to be doing blood screenings of Mr and Mrs Bakkani to confirm what you say is true.”

“Tests of their blood you say?” says Scarab. 

Scarab slowly swings his left fist from where it is curled in front out to the side and then up. His right fist mimics it next.  He is widening his lats until they show they are suggestive of small barn doors. His shoulders mount into miniature boulders.

“Is the use of a blood test very necessary?” Scarab coos.

“It is,” says the commissioner — he is tough in some ways, experienced at the way of the world.

Scarab is not concerned. He is certain he can get his way. That’s all that matters. He doesn’t care what he does.

He says to the commissioner, “I have a session to practice my posing in a few minutes. I’ll only be ready if I change as we talk. You understand that don’t you?”

“Yes. Of course. We all have schedules.”

“I take off my stringer first, don’t you agree?”

“No, preparing to pose, one would take off their training pants first. Isn’t that right?”

“Oh yes,” says Scarab, “You are completely correct.”

Scarab pushes the pants down to his ankles. He wriggles each foot free. The pants get kicked to the side and he stands there in just his oversized boxer underwear.

“You see, I work out,” Scarab says. He splays his legs. Individual cords of muscle rope atop his twenty nine and a half inch thighs rising and falling.

“Hmmhum,” says the commissioner.

Scarab crosses his hands to the front hem of his stringer. He lifts it over his head and off.  He lets it dangle from the fingers of his left hand before dropping it to the floor. He stands in “relaxed pose”. His pecs cast the shadow of someone who’s cycled a number of times.  His nipples are dark brown.

“I workout lifting weights,” Scarab says looking slowly at each of his body parts in a choreographed show. “You know resistance exercise is an important path to virility, to being more and more strong, to making a true man, to being desired. Resistance exercises make a man’s muscles toned.”

The commissioner says, “Very important”

“Of course I don’t just keep my muscle toned do I?” says Scarab.

“No.”

“That may be the way of some, right?” Scarab says.

“Yes.”

“But that’s not mine, is it?” Scarab says. He steps forward. He’s about eight feet from the lawman.

He pulls up the bottom hems of the boxers and shows his thighs more fully.  They are rippling and corded. Then he smiles cruelly and pushes the boxers down and free from his legs, discarding the boxers atop the rest of his clothes.

The commissioner looks at Scarab’s groin. “No, I don’t like that. You should turn around.” The commissioner hasn’t liked the undersized penis or the absent balls.

Scarab turns and the Commissioner looks at the young pterodactyl back. It’s veined and knotted.  Below, the ass fills beautifully. The sphincter chasm holds like a sculpted gate.

The commissioner sees a bin of posers on a shelf. He pulls an especially skimpy neon orange one from the top. He throws it against the muscle back that Scarab has. “You have posing practice,” the commissioner says, “oughtn’t you put that on?”

Scarab bends and reaches behind. His asshole opens. His hamstrings look like cuts flayed of skin. Scarab puts one foot into a tiny leg hole and then switches to put his other foot in the other. He drags the stretching fabric up over the maple tree trunks of his legs. He shimmies the poser onto his ass and snaps it into place. The fabric expands. The waistband threads over and around his sculpted hips. The stretching is barely scanty. The leg hems climb the freshness of his thighs and curve away past his hips toward his front.

Scarab turns and his penis is now vacuumed up into a miniature but meated blatantly outlined mound.

“Better?” Scarab asks.

“Yes,” the commissioner replies.

Scarab takes another three steps toward the commissioner. 

“I believe you may have had some experience ‘working out’,” Scarab says.

“Yes,” comes the commissioner’s reply.

“But you are nothing compared to me, Right?” Scarab asks.

“Yes.”

Scarab tightens into a most muscular and then inflates to an impressing double biceps, lats flared and legs on display.

“I’m big aren’t I?” he says.

“Yes. Yes you are.”

Scarab is forcing his displaying arm in the worshipper’s face.

“I’m only going to get bigger.”

He snorts as he goes to a back flare.

“Can you imagine that?” Scarab brags. He flows to a right side bicep pose and a left after that.

“Yes. oh. Yes you are.”

“Can you conceive how I feel?” Scarab drawls, stomping his left foot to explode his thigh, “Conceive how I will feel?”

The commissioner says, “uurrr.”

Scarab swings his left foot forward and then his right. His thighs already wobble some with weight. The flesh on them echoes to a stop after each step. He approaches the commissioner moving a juvenile bull’s size with each slow step.

He brings his porny-ness right to the commissioner’s face. His lips are inches from the commissioner’s eyes. 

“Do you have any conception of how dripping this all is? Do you?  Of how I feel? Of what it is to be endowed this way? Do You?”

His breath oozes masculinity.

The commissioner responds. Perhaps it is a “no” but more it is hard to tell and just sounds like a moan.

Scarab says, “I don’t think there needs to be any bloodwork to know that Mossano and Sarai have been using the illicit cocaine, heroine and meth that they have polluted our city with, do you?”

And the commissioner pulls himself together and says clearly, “No.”

And then Scarab puts his tongue in the commissioner’s throat and moves the commissioner’s hands onto his rock hard sexualized body.

“Fondle, Lick, Worship, Enjoy, you puny fucker,” croaks Scarab, “don’t even think about the fact that you will have to deal with me after I’ve executed my plan to get 70% more huge — you’d probably like that wouldn’t you, you fuck? A dom that massive? muscle that grotesque and obscene bearing down on you? Dominating you? Making you a fucking fuck toy? You’re such a pansy, puny fag man. It’s my pleasure to fully destroy fuck drip like you.”

[QuoteTheRaven]

CHAPTER TWO — THE TAKEOVER

The commissioner has orgasmed himself and departed.  

Scarab remains alone, fondling himself, his palm rubbing deliciously against his posers, and doing light lines of coke. He gets off in the fabric and then peels the poser off and wipes the spank from the inside panel around his chest and ass.  He pulls back on his workout pants and throws on the stringer. His back ripples as he slides it over his head.

Then he gets on his phone.

“Hey,” he says to the manager who answers at the main MRP Gym branch, “Is Sarai around… tell her a police commissioner is coming to talk to her. It’s important.”

Scarab runs his hand up and down his supple inflated bicep.

He continues into the phone, “In order to protect Simb, tell Sarai that she needs to cooperate, tell her she needs to stay around. Tell her things are drastic but that ‘Scarab will take care of everything.’”

He leers at his reflection as he says these lies.

In closing the call, Scarab says, “Thanks, Bro, Scarab will remember how dutiful you are.” Scarab thinks the fellow shows the profile of an efficient functionary. He will preserve the position for the underling.

Scarab goes out to the front desk. He tells the MRP II branch’s manager to gather the trainers together in the spin room.  Once they are gathered, Scarab paces outside the room briefly flexing and massaging his pecs.  His cock won’t go down he’s so boned and aroused, but he disguises it as best he can. He wipes the triumphal expression off his face and drains it from his prowling stance. Going in, he curves his shoulders forward and down. He slumps his lower back. He lowers the outer corners of his mouth. He tries his hardest to look beaten and glum.

To the group, he says, “I have the most horrible news. The Thai police have just left with Mossano in their possession. Soon they will be arresting Sarai.”

He continues. “Unbelievable… Disgraceful… Betrayal!…” he says, “Sarai and Mossano have been running an illegal cocaine, heroine, and narcotics rings for years.” Then he shouts, “They have brazenly been destroying people’s lives…. Brazenly destroying community…. FOR GREED… My own brother…. And his dear wife… like a SISTER!…. I who love them more than I love myself…. Am stunned and horrified. They have behaved despicably!! And with an innocent son! They are headed for prison. Poor innocent Simb is being taken by the state to a more ‘wholesome’ environment than this one with its ‘muscle culture’ and steroids and recreational drugs.”

He has straightened up as he talks. He can’t help it, he knows it is his now.  His places. His power. His access. His word. His rule.

“Thank goodness,” he finally says approaching his conclusion and inflating his upper body as much as he can, “My brother had the wisdom to make me the ward of his gyms, his safe….”

Scarab looks at one of the fetching young trainers with pretty brown eyes and some decent fat free muscle on his build. “Here, handsome,” he calls, “Read what this says”. Scarab passes his activated phone screen to the tasty buffed up little snack. While the guy reads, Scarab brushes the muscle morsel on his full, genetically perky little muscle ass. What a nice curve it has. How firm and solidly plump it is. The guy’s voice is deeper than Scarab had expected. Delicious, he thinks. Scarab may well attempt to sample him when this is done.  The compact musclehead reads, “Hmmm… ok… it says, ‘Scarab, let anyone read this who needs to know that I’ve left you in charge of MRP Gyms I and II. I’ve also given you the code to the safes. To whomever else reads this, Scarab has the authority to make every and any decision while I’m gone no matter how big or small.”

“SEE!” bull-horns Scarab. “I will now be in charge. We will now truly live the values Mossano, my dear but morally deformed brother, professed but failed so spectacularly to understand or uphold. He sewed confusion about the true meaning of many of those values. But I am here to correct all of that. Thank you my trainers and my staff!”

Mossano flexes then and grins, pulling up his stringer and going to push down his pants before recalling his posers are in a scummy wad in the office and that he hasn’t put boxer underwear back on.

The staff all just stare. They have seen Mossano for so long… Scarab is muscled. Scarab is conditioned.  But Scarab is not Mossano.

Scarab says, “Let me hit that pose again.” He snorts. Then rasps, “Perhaps you all want to applaud.” And throwing a most muscular and then a double bi, the menagerie of gym workers all applaud with the hollow echo of disbelief and uncertain concern.

 

The events elsewhere happen swiftly. The commissioner’s men arrive at MRP I. They take Sarai into custody. She objects. She says confidently, “Just because I use bodybuilding drugs does not mean I use illegal drugs. How can you think such a thing?” When told there is proof, she exclaims, “How can there be proof for something that hasn’t been done?”  The staff is dazed in a state of inaction. The confused unfamiliarity of a descending police force paired with Scarab’s earlier call is enough for them to be bewildered with doubt. They do not step into intercede or defend Sarai. The law people lay hands on her and she lashes out with her big rippling muscle physique knocking one down.  “Resisting arrest!!!” they cackle as they manage to get her into handcuffs.  

Several officers disappear into each locker room. They come back with a dozen boxes from each that no employee or member has ever seen or can quite believe was there before. The officers say to the employees, “This is a five time class A stash of heroine and methamphetamines. Your bosses are going to go away for a long time. We are happy to hold them alone accountable. But if any here want to voice objections, we can charge them for accountability as well.”

The employees all watch open-jawed as Sarai is taken away.

An hour later, they are still stunned, when the doors swing open and in comes Scarab, trailed by the lapping Shen and Ban. The two followers are famished looking, puny and weak, but aggressive looking and hungry-cruel.

Scarab gathers the staff and clients all around and makes the same speech he had made an hour before. Simb’s dearest friend Naylon is hidden in the back, not strictly staff and not strictly client. When he hears that Mossano and Sarai are arrested and not coming back his heart crashes. Mossano and Sarai have been like parents.  When he hears Simb is going to go away to a new home for “his own well-being” Naylon’s throat clenches shut. He lets escape one echoing cavernous sob.

Scarab muses, “There, there, you boy, I’ll take care of you.”

 

Scarab moves into the office and says, “I am going to like it here.”

“I have just one more call to make, dogs,” he says to Shen and Ban.

 

At the precinct station, Simb sniffles in the corner. He can’t believe all that has happened. He says to himself over and over, “how did I not know”? The scene of his arrest at MRP II plays again and again in his mind — all of the police and armor and weapons, the look of disappointment and total loss on Mossano’s face, Scarab’s horrible seething rage. Simb misses Sarai! Just wants to see her.  He asks repeatedly when he can go home. His bean pole body is drained and he crumples like bones. 

 

When the commissioner sweeps in, Simb’s hopes pointlessly rise, then fall. He hears very quickly the commands the clerks receive. Mossano and Sarai are guilty. The commissioner just needs the most senior clerk to pull the bloodwork from another case and use it here. And the boy is to never go home again. He can go to foster care in some other part of the country. Simb falls into a numb quietness. He will do whatever they say.

 

 

In Dr Ridi, the physiologist and pharmacologist’s office, the phone rings. It is Scarab making the last call that he’d mentioned to Shen and Ban.

Scarab makes the most overdone speech about the heartbreaking loss of his half-brother, about how in disbelief he is, about the greatness of Mossano, that it all must be a mistake, that he will never stop fighting for what is right.

Dr Ridi is crushed, “I have known Mossano since he was a boy. I feel like he is my ward. One more honorable I have never known — . We have done everything together. I found new ways to train and protocol him that transformed him from a nothing into a bodybuilt god. I have never shared those with the world.”

Scarab says, “Yes…oh yes… yes… alas… oh yes that is so true. We both suffer. What a loss to us. Oh how we suffer.”

Then he says, “You mentioned protocols… ones that have never been shared…Now that my brother may be gone, I thought…and I only say this out of great loyalty and reverence…. Perhaps you need start using your protocols again. On me? I, one who is even a little taller and naturally broader in the shoulder and narrower in the waist. And, you know, someone who is clearly innocent. It might be very good now to show we are innocent and carrying on. And so that I can sustain the fight as best I can.”

“Yes, you may be right,” says Dr. Ridi.

On the other side of the phone, Scarab’s canine teeth drip as he smiles. He buries his rough hand into his workout pants where his cock is still hard erect.

“Oh, fuck, yeah,” he whispers.

[QuoteTheRaven]

CHAPTER 3 — LIFE IS EASY

 

Two years later….

 

Timona is short and round, cheerful — a woman filled with joy. She hums and laughs over a metal bowl, cooking outdoors. Overhead, a pergola of corrugated plastic resting between palm tree trunks provides shade. 

 

To her right is the dirt clearing off the forest beach road where customers pull in to eat or take food away. To her left is the dirt that stretches to the riverfront. There’s a rickety dock. Five of six jet skis sit there. It’s early and no one has rented yet, but the Boy, twenty years old, has one out for a spin.

 

Attached to the pergola rests a shack. On its roof, her husband Puma, straddles the peak. He is a piece of wire in human form bending this way and that, all legs, arms and smiles that takeover his whole face. He is taller than Timona, but not tall. He works, thatching. The whole time he talks at Timona, singing words to what she hums and guffawing as he moves about. 

 

From the doorway of the shack, a door of three planks dangles. Inside there are two rooms and a toilet — simple. That’s all they need. 

 

Their room holds just their bed and clothes.  The room of the Boy piles with glass tanks and metal pots crawling with “pets” from sand and sea.

 

It is another day and so the sun shines and the mood is carefree. 

 

About 11:30am, a jeep pulls in. Out steps a young man with an inflated muscular body the likes of which Timona and Puma have never seen.  

Timona shrieks.

Puma jumps down and races to the overdeveloped lad. 

“We’re good people. We do right by everyone. We run a simple roadside snack shack. We rent jet skis. That is all!”

“Oh yeah,” the stud laughs, “What are you gonna do for me? I always need food — lots of it and the right kind.”

“That’s what we do!” says Puma hurriedly.

“Come, come, come, come,” titters Timona anxiously.

The two get to work frantically. The rippling, shredded lad begins eating heartily. And then calling out. 

“More chicken”, the bulging beauty laughs. Then after a bit, “More yam. More rice.” Next he gleefully requests more avocado oil. 

Puma and Timona are not used to working so fast and hard. Are not used to being nervous and somewhat afraid.

The young Hercules still stuffs his gut when the Boy returns.

“Boy, boy, boy!” Timona sings.

“Here is one you may know what to do with,” whispers Puma to the Boy hopefully.

“Welcome,” the Boy says full of verve.

The young muscled stranger turns sort of flexing.

His shoulders clearly inflate through artificial means and pop in definition due to dietary control. A loose tank scoop reveals the sidecarving of model-developed beef-muscle pecs. The Boy sees the guy ripple the fibers on his large baseball-biceps.

“Whoa,” the Boy whistles to himself. He hasn’t seen things like this in quite some time.  And it’s more striking having never quite seen so much on a guy so young. This guy must be his own age. The face is boyish still in a way that suggests it was baby faced as little as a year or two ago. 

“Hey,” the Boy says aloud, “do you want to rent a jet ski?”

“I’m from Bangkok,” the strapping fellow replies, “I don’t know how to jet ski.” It’s confident but modest too.

There’s something about the guy that the Boy can’t put his finger on. It’s like he reminds him of something he can’t remember. 

“I’ll show you,” says the Boy.

“I don’t want to spend money on something I don’t know how to do.”

“For you, it’ll be free,” says the Boy, “Come on.”

“Yeah, ok,” is the response. And then, “Thanks.”

 

The visitor rises.  He’s big all around. His back is nicely wide. A circular curve mounts his butt, high over legs girthing the thickness of Alstonia trunks just past sapling. His arms are long. When he bends either limb the sinew laying the length of his humerus swirls into a single peaked biceps above and full roundness in the triceps below. Timona or Puma could do laundry on the washboard of the guy’s lower abs. Dazzling white teeth light up the smile in the guy’s yellow-brown skin.

“Come this way,” laughs the Boy.  He watches the movement of pure athleticism from the young stranger — especially the rocking movement of the jocky thighs, glutes, and hams.

At the dock, the Boy leaps on one of the doubles. “Hop on behind,” he says. The muscled hunk clambers his bigger size down behind the boy with coordination; but, his weight does send the jet-ski rocking. 

As the Boy accelerates away from the dock, he can feel the solidness backing him, and the engine’s sound tells him the work being done to pull the load.

They follow the River down and out into the waves of the protected ocean cove.  The Boy likes the tight circling of the buck’s fist around his waist and onto his own hollow belly. He hadn’t invited such a hold, but when the fingers had slipped off his hip in a natural way and the hand had circled to his navel he’d appreciated it too much to say anything. The thickness of the dude’s bicep pushes in beneath his armpit. It’s ok by the Boy.

After thirty minutes, he feels the hottie’s weight reliably shifting behind him with the driving. The pretty buck seems to have gotten the rhythm of it. The Boy calls out, “wanna drive?”

“Sure, Ssmmmmmmm,” the answer comes back. The engine noise and wind are too loud — the boy can’t hear exactly what was said.  He can’t make out the second word. But he recognizes the guy does want a turn to drive. 

The jet ski’s engine cuts and the jet ski drifts to a stop. The Boy springs up lifting himself from the seat. He twists his bones and says scrawnily, “Shift forward when I dive off. I’ll come up behind.”

The water immediately feels beautifully cool on the Boy. It’s refreshing. And somewhat a relief. For some reason the vibrations or undulations or closeness of the passenger have been making his tool plump. In the water its-bigger-than-average size sags relievedly back to a softened state.

Within a minute, the Boy leaps up and out of the water and onto the rear of the machine. He slides behind the swoop of muscle which constitutes the back of the young jock.  

The board shorts he and the dude both wear insulate his crotch from the roundness of the glutes that would welcome the fit of quite a hose.  

The dude eases the jet ski into motion in a sensible way.

The Boy moves his hands from the side handles of the machine to rest on the hard obliques of the stud’s waist. The obliques are like a carved bench. The boy slides his hands all the way around. He balls one fist and grips it with his other hand pulling back super softly and making contact with the amazing flat and yet three dimensional abs. This guy really is sizzling.  The guy though takes the Boy’s hands and moves them one at a time from his belly until each hand is flat on a full firm tit. The Boy can’t believe how good the two mounds feel — they are as solid as drums under the skin. The guy is clearly jacked as a young god and proud as shit of his build. The thick and lengthy girth in the Boy’s groin hardens now and must be giving itself away against the dude’s ass.

The stranger releases his grip on the Boy’s hand which is now massaging bodybuilder pec meat. The stranger runs his free hand through his black wavy hair.  And then the dude’s hand lifts the hair away from the nape of his neck.  

That’s when the Boy sees it. A lion’s head tattoo. It’s exactly like his own.

He screams out, “Naylon!!!!!! it’s me Simb!”

“I KNOW!” comes the reply back over the built shoulder, “I could tell by the horse hose!”

They pull into a protected spot and Naylon swings around on the jet ski’s bench so that they are face to face. Their arms are thrown around each other. The hug threatens to force the air out of Simb. 

Their mouths open momentarily for an involuntary instinctual male on male kiss. But it is short. And then they stop and natter away — sharing everything there is to share when three years with no communication has kept them apart.

At one point, Simb asks, “And what of my Uncle? How grateful I am that he pledged to save MRP and MRP II Gyms. that he would save the reputation of my father and explain it was all me.”

“Save?,” coughs Naylon. “Not blame your father? Explain it was all you?!?”

“Yes,” utters Simb naively.

“No, Simb,” Naylon conveys, “Your father is condemned. Scarab has methodically made it so that Mossano and Sarai are forgotten.”

“Bu-u-ut…. All the trophies… all the photographs?”

“All gone.”

“But my dad was the biggest, most muscular anyone has ever been. They must all remember that.”

“Simb, your uncle is bigger now than Mossano was.  His two lapdogs, Shen and Ban are as muscular as your dad was. They are three freakish brutes dominating all in power and size.”

[QuoteTheRaven]

Chapter 4

“Try you, weak fuck,” growls Scarab.

Scarab monsters over the boy on the bench. 

But the weasel’s body splays magnificently and massed mountainously. Shen’s grandness heaves, his hands on the bar. Four plates stack on either end. 

“Now! mass hound,” Scarab barks and between them they have the bar off it’s rests. 

“Nnhhh!” Shen explodes out as the weight goes down. Ribs like an elephant expand. And then arms twenty inches around churn and the bar tracks upward. Shen’s thick dense thighs lift his ass from the bench. Shen’s cock lays up through the spandex fabric. As he nears straight arms, his chest and neck and face crowd with pec flesh.

“Yesss,” purrs Scarab. Then: “do it again!”

The expression on Shen’s face gets alpha and then the weight is descending. Veins raise up gently on Shen’s nineteen inch neck. On his bis, veins snake along the high peaks. His gigantic thighs rip this way and that, literally every direction cords with muscle fiber showing.

At the bottom, Shen snorts. His palms press up a half an inch. But the bar comes to a stop, falls back, and his face grimaces.

“Come, come,” urges Scarab reaching toward the bar to begin the assist.

There’s a sudden lesser snort, almost a giggle sound it could seem, coming from Shen. Then Shen is grinning, and, before Scarab can help, the bar is smoothly on the rise. At the top, Scarab is treated to the visual treat of watching an exquisitely intentional squeeze that creases the pecs of Shen higher until Shen is splicing the inner faces together. Shen flexes his triceps inward into circumferencing horseshoed things.

Scarab lets his puny member go stiff hard in the Lycra thigh shorts he has painted on.

“More! Muscle boy!” he coos and sneers.

“Man,” Shen huffs.  And before he starts the rep, he gasps, “Prepare Ban to do that thing.”

“O-o-oh yeah,” Scarab hoots and whimpers at the same time.

He tosses his head at Ban.

Ban is standing at Shen’s knee. He is an array of muscle that is simply huge. His shoulders rumble over an iron core. It’s impossible to determine if there’s even a skeleton below. Incredible dense sinew seems to shape a coil and structure all its own. He is the one of the three who seems to be normally endowed sexually and his five and a half inch pecker snakes above legs about 30 inches around. As he breathes in and out his whole musculature expands and then condenses in to its extreme. 

Ban sees Scarab’s head toss and eases between Shen’s legs. The bulk of him forces Shen’s legs wide. Ban lowers until he kneels. He watches past Shen’s prick to see giant chest muscles pump out another four reps. Ban can see that the strength is starting to wane, so Ban lowers his head. He mouths the sensitive cock endowment. He listens as Shen chokes out two more on his own and another two with Scarab’s inhumanized hands also on the bar.

It has been the final set and now all three men rise. They are immense. Incredibly sated with how hulked with muscle they are above tree trunk bodybuilder legs. Their torsos heave. They drool. Snot trails from nostrils.

“Come, boys,” Scarab bowwows, and in a parade they plow through the temple of iron to the private locker room for the pros. 

They are alone. The scale awaits. Ban clambers on and they watch as the dial swings to 279lbs. “Fuck!!” he barks.  

“Get up here too,” he says to Shen. His glistening, rippling twin mounts the scale as well. Their beautiful mammoth arms grapple around the sixty six inches of the others torso as they balance atop the platform of the scale. The dial climbs crazily until it reads 569lbs.  

Shen leaps off and squeezes his monstrous mass into a most muscular. “So fucking huge!!!!!” shouts Shen. His boner is rock hard.

Scarab glides forward pushing the other two from his path. His breath blows in and out of him. He is like a mountain rising onto the machine and simply smiles like the carnivore he is when he sees the dial swing to 344.

The stringers come off the twenty three year olds. The displays of their torsos swell as they go through the motion of raising their built arms and feeding the fabric over their shoulders, off their necks, and past their heads.

Scarab retrieves the syringes from the counter where the contents were allowed to warm to room temperature. 

Shen and Ban both strip til they have nothing on. Their bodies are hypertrophic — muscle whores.

They are as sizeable and muscular as Mossano was at his peak.

But then Scarab removes his stringer and strips free of his puny black and gold and red and green spandex thigh cut. He is twenty nine years old and 25% bigger than either of them.  Sixty nine inches around his chest. Thirty one at his waist. Legs that are each thirty four inches around. He thinks again how he now weighs 344 pounds.

“Come, boys,” he brays again. He slips the needle points into the glutes which constitutes a focal point of each guys transformative growth. 

The gear is abused. Efficaciously abused. They want it. It’s fucking intense and so insane. And Scarab does his own.

And then the three are with each other.

Sweat slipping across limb onto skin. Sexual members chubbed so that they are at play. Turgid, bulging, brawling, aching, brimming, thrusting, humping, spilling.

They are indulging the seedy wants. The sensations that dam behind enormoused male bodies are dirty and make them giddy. Little bodies squirt a quick release through a dick. But the mountains of beef that squelch on them runs its own pattern of rising and rising and rising sensation and then flowing hormonal expulsing release. To get there, they nose in each other’s asses and fondle balls and mouthlock pec-mounted nips. They are still faggy queer muscle drippers when the sounds of the first of the “normal” staff arriving back on the 5am scene puts a stop to the arousal.

They put on “normal” clothes again, but there is nothing normal about being obscenely hypertrophied and gargantuan male manbeasts fucking superior to the world.

[Ro20316]

Simb is gonna have to work hard if he wants to suceed avenging his father.

[BrandonT]

7 hours ago, QuoteTheRaven said:

They put on “normal” clothes again, but there is nothing normal about being obscenely hypertrophied and gargantuan male manbeasts fucking superior to the world.

Goals.

[QuoteTheRaven]

CHAPTER 5 — SETTLED

Five and a half months later…

 

The alarm goes off on Naylon’s phone. Their shift’s ending. He seeks out Simb, finding him with a client at the squat racks in the lower gym. The client is dressed like she’s maybe Australian — maybe fifteen years older than Simb.  

Naylon catches Simb’s eye and points to his wrist, mouthing “it’s time to go”.

It’s 1:30pm and their day working at the Phuket Resort Union Fitness Center is done. Ninety five percent of tourists want to finish their vacation workouts before lunch time.  The 20,000 square foot gleaming glass and steel facility draws them from all the resorts. And while the facility will stay open until 1am, as trainers only looking to make enough money from 1 hour session gigs to get by, they always wrap up by two.

Simb looks back at Naylon and mouths, “Ok” and gives a thumbs up. Aloud he calls to the side, “I’ll be up in a few minutes when I’m done.”

“Naturally,” Naylon thinks. Naylon has a good sense of his friend. Knows the type of client that usually keeps Simb longer. Usually, but not always, gals. Usually, but not always, about fifteen years more mature. Naylon laughs. He doesn’t care. He’s not jealous. He and Simb have their own thing.

Naylon heads to the trainers’ locker room on his own. He strips off the purple polo and black shorts of the club’s uniform. He eyes himself in the gleaming mahogany framed mirror. He’s tall and lean in his jock. His ass rises curvy out of the rear straps. His endowment folds in the pouch. He’s still muscled, but has to take solace more now in being proportionate. He guesses it’s still hot. Just not inflated the way he was when he’d just fled MRP and happened on Simb. He had suspected that Scarab had been feeding him gear. It has taken an adjustment to be okay with that girth easing away and his shrinking in size. Having gone from a 49” chest to a 43.5”. But Simb is against gear, even if they could get it. Fortunately they both love dieting and eating and lifting and together with Simb in Phuket, Naylon does all those things.

Naylon sheds the jockstrap and rounds the corner for the showers. 

When he comes back to the lockers, Simb is walking in.  

“She was beautiful,” Simb sighs. “And so incredibly kind.”

“Yeah,” drawls Naylon.

Simb has gone the opposite direction bodywise in the past part of the year. The time together working as trainers in the morning and then bodybuilding naturally on their own at the local iron gym in the afternoon has given Simb a conditioned layer of muscle now. The measure beneath his armpits around his chest has gone from 39 inches to 41 3/4s.

Simb sheds his purple polo. The torso of his 6’3” body looks quite good. It has ripples and cuts. He pushes his black shorts off and stands with his shapely long legs in just the jock.

Naylon comes and stands at Simb’s side. They inspect themselves together in the mirror.  Naylon is two and a half inches shorter than Simb. But the shape and condition and muscle size on each of their bodies is similar with Naylon diminishing and Simb catching somewhat up. Their skin is identical and their facial features are so similar that people say that they resemble twins. They know they are not twins, they are just as close as two males can be.

Simb swings into a single front bicep going left. And Naylon follows going right. Simb descends into a most muscular and Naylon does too. Simb inhales up to a front lat spread, lean and angularly muscled. Naylon does the same at his side.  

They look model good, if not at all jacked. But both grin like the young bucks they are. 

They turn toward each other and wrap a Bro embrace and lock face in a quick bit of Bro tongue. Pulling apart Simb gives Naylon’s pecker a playful twang and gets the same from Naylon in return.  “Hmmph, yeah…” Naylon exhales.

Then they put on tees and khaki shorts so they can motorbike to the cheaper part of town where they’ll lift for a couple of hours and then eat the rest of their meals for the day.

 

In the Phuket Midi Gym, it is chipped iron and old bent steel. It doesn’t matter to Simb and Naylon. They are form, program, and pace. 

Naylon stands on the spotting platform for the bench now while Simb is on his back below. They both wear stringers with the thin nylon shorts common for runners to wear. At around 10.5% body fat, most of Simb’s muscles show as he reps the bar with the two plates at each end. The slow steady inexorable count is torching his chest. The intense squeezing he imparts at the end of each push sets every fiber on fire. The intensity is the best. As he hits failure, Naylon leans over, his hands ready. But the genuine happy and handsome smile that Naylon gives reenergizes Simb and Simb pushes out two more completely on his own and two further with Naylon just barely touching the bar.

They continue like this until they are done.

And then eat like lions having just landed prey.

 

That night they swing in hammocks on the concrete balcony of the one room studio apartment they rent in a worn building in a cruddier part of town. 

“I love our life,” says Simb.

“Me too,” says Naylon.  He looks down to where Simb’s hammock branches off below. Simb is beautiful. He will be forever. Simb is in Naylon’s heart no matter where Simb goes or what he wants to do with his life.

Separately though Naylon’s been thinking about the past. “Simb,” he says, “you know I think you have to go back to Bangkok some day, back to MPR.”

“No,” says Simb, “that’s not something I have to do.”

“But it’s bad there. You’re the only one who could make it better.”

“It’s too dark. It’s too intense. I can’t deal. That place is obsessed with muscle and size. It’s freaky and wrong. And drugs! Don’t even get me started. I know it was the cocaine and heroine…. But steroids made my mom and dad gateway to the other things. I know my uncle is running things hard now but he did help save my mom and dad from the path they were on. And he doesn’t do heroine. He doesn’t do cocaine. They are in jail but at least they aren’t overdosed. At least they are alive.”

Naylon couldn’t argue with his friend. Simb’s description didn’t sound exactly the way Naylon thought it was, but he also didn’t have ways to factually dispute what Simb believed.

[monstarmaster]

Great story, QuoteTheRaven! I am looking forward to the continuation!

[QuoteTheRaven]

CHAPTER 6 — MPR AT THE BIG TRADE SHOW 

 

One month and three weeks later….

 

It’s just short of two months later, and at Thai 2025 Fit and Muscle Expo, the fit thirty-something women are causing Simb’s head to swivel like a bar stool. Naylon works hard to keep Simb focused. 

 

It seems a smattering of the clothing companies, chiropractors, supplement retailers, and all the rest rely on a certain kind of body-polished mid-career thirty-something woman as their point person for the show.  

Not so Phuket Resort Union Fitness Center. Their manager’s manager has sent only Simb and Naylon — the two tall, fit-boy twenty-year-old drinks of water.

Simb lugs three stacked crates while Naylon hauls a foldable table. They bring the stuff into the convention center. The purple polos and black shorts sit clean and crisp on them. The purple crates overflow with stuff to assemble and stock the booth — tablecloths, banners, and more. Assorted flyers jut from the top. This is the final load from the purple and black company van that idles in the loading zone outside. They are due to be completely set up at 7:30am.

Naylon says, “It’s going to be quite the day.  Do you think we’ll get time to wander the floor?”

“Not when all the attendees get here,” Simb answers.

“Should I go now then?,” Naylon asks.

“That’s fine.”  

Naylon goes to check things out.

While he’s gone, Simb assembles the booth. He has a quick mind for erecting the table, constructing the frames, and mounting the banners on the fasteners from which they hang. Gym management told them to be on the lookout for members and trainers. And overall to just “get the name out there.” Naylon and Simb are good with that. Phuket Resort Union Fitness Center is a good place to work out. They think it’s a good place to work. Naylon shows back up at 7:58am. They both linger for a few minutes but attendees still really haven’t arrived. Simb heads off to look around.  

The conference hall is a great rectangular structure with steel and glass frame walls.  The booths are laid out in quadrants with an artificial mountain set up in the center.

 

The Phuket Resort Union booth sits at the southwest corner.  Simb traces the outside booths — passing home equipment vendors, supplement makers, nutrition services — just a smattering of what is on offer. He crosses into another quadrant and swings around the corner heading a new direction.  

At the gap between the next two quadrants, he pauses as a big group is approaching from the right. They’ve come in from the outside and the group grows to three dozen strong as more and more come in. 

They are going to block the way — a large assemblage walking like a retinue almost. It’s almost royalty with the court in procession behind.  

As Simb more and more understands that this is exactly what it is, he sees at the front three men. But not just three men. They are three twenty-something males big and muscular in a way that exceeds even what he has previously seen. The lead is probably twenty seven. He is astonishing. He is six foot one and must weigh 350 pounds. Behind him are what looks like two twenty three year olds.  The guys can only be two or three years older than he himself is, but each of them hulks suggestively at what must be 275 pounds.  

They are dressed in oversized sweat pants and hoodies. But their legs are monumental, their asses humongous with glute volume, their backs thunderous with width, their shoulders bouldered in mass.  Simb’s jaw lowers. His mouth is ready to catch flies. His eyes bolt on to the goliaths. Oh god, how men cheat to that creation, he thinks. He wonders if the ground is shaking under his feet. His mind goes away as he literally stops thinking and he just stares. Struck dumb. Robbed of rational thought. Mesmerized. Uncomfortably desirous. Even unwantedly aroused.

Behind them come a compliment of lesser, gay-like and gayish things — guys, trying lifters, some bodybuilder guys and chicks. All lashed to those mightiest kings. Simb lets them pass and slowly regains himself. He has to remember who he is. He really doesn’t care. He knows that he must keep that true.

When the path is cleared, he intends to recommence his tour. But on the ground, someone’s dropped a hydration bottle and it’s started to leak. That could be a slipping hazard, Simb thinks. As good-hearted as he is, Simb has no choice but to go to it and pick it up. He kneels for the bottle and lingers mopping the puddle with the fabric of his shorts’s hem. As he’s wiping, from the corner of his eye he sees the tip of a walking crutch making its way in his direction from where the retinue had come in. “I’m cleaning this up just in time,” he realizes for this disabled member of the party that had passed. Slowly the walking stick plants point-by-point closer to him.  

“Thank you, young man,” he hears.

The creaky voice is familiar!

Simb leaps up and looks at the speaker. He knows him!

Simb cries, “Dr. Ridi! It’s me Simb!”

The old man does a double take, but then recognizes him for who he is. 

“Boy, boy, boy, boy, boy…” the wizened man cries. “It is YOU! It is really you!”

The doctor’s eyes drop to look at Simb’s feet and then slowly scan up and then up and then up finally arriving at the thick thatch of glossy black locks topping Simb’s 6’4” height.

“Look at you….” Dr Ridi almost prays, “Just look at you.”

Dr. Ridi can’t believe it. Simb is even more beautiful than any of the others had been. He is taller, so agilely stanced, so heavenly proportioned, so beautifully skinned, so gorgeously faced. It spins Dr. Ridi’s mind. Words disappear and he simply begins to murmur, bare sounds in his breath.

Finally he chokes out, “Simb… Simb… Simb… you are your Mother’s son… you are the fruit of your father’s loins.  Simb, their greatness is in you. Their legacy is the greater promise in you! How wonderful it is! How wonderful, wonderful, wonderful it is!”

A tear is in the corner of Dr. Ridi’s eye. His claw-ish long-nailed fingers grip on Simb’s shoulder. They clump the purple fabric into a small wad. 

Simb’s like a vulnerable little kid again suddenly — the appearance of this elder, the mentioning of his mom, of his dad.

“I don’t want their greatness!” He tantrums. “They were cheaters! They didn’t do good things. Besides i could never be like them!”

“Oh, Simb,” says Dr Ridi heartbroken, “your parents were great people. You have that same soul and goodness in you.”

“Goodness? Goodness!?” Simb spits. “Weren’t they selfish to take what they did? To use it to become what they could become?”

“No, Simb,” says Dr. Ridi, “not selfish at all. They made the greatest versions of themselves to lead the land. To inspire thousands… inspire hundreds of thousands.”

“Greatest versions, sure,” Simb snaps sarcastically, “but using what? drugs?”

“P.E.D.s, Simb,” says Dr Ridi. “The P.E.D.s.  made them into gods. You are Mossano and Sarai’s son. The P.E.D.s must make you a God as well. More of a God than any of them ever were maybe. More of a God than your uncle is today.”

Simb does not want to hear it. He can’t believe he has seen Dr. Ridi. The sight of him has meant much. It has brought back a feeling of when he was loved by his birth mom and dad. There’s a warmness inside that hasn’t been there for a long time. Dr. Ridi has been a bridge back to those feelings and to that time.  

But this other talk is too much. He has to go.

Simb throws a wild hug on the old man. Endlessly long limbs wrap clumsily and quickly around the thin shoulders of the pharmacologist. The squeeze pumps the air fully out of Dr. Ridi’s lungs, making the bony man cough. And then Simb is off. He bounds at first and then regathers himself and walks toward the northeast corner.  He’ll finish his loop quickly now before being back with Naylon, before going back to his job.

 

Simb is all personality with the attendees during the day. But in the quiet moments, Naylon sees something is on Simb’s mind. As they secure the materials for the night, Naylon asks about it.

“It’s nothing,” says Simb.

And they go out for street food and to crash for the night in the van.  By the next morning, Naylon trusts that the mood of his friend has faded. It seems it has anyway, and they head back for another day.

 

Around lunchtime that day, something new and different happens.  

It arises when Naylon asks Simb, “You remember that slight shorter Dutch guy that came by yesterday afternoon?”

“Hmmm…Dutch?” says Simb.

“Yeah… he took a picture of us.”

“Nayl, a lot of guys took pictures of us. I don’t remember him.” Then Simb laughs his big goofy confident HAr-hAR. “Besides, I was stupidly distracted yesterday!”

“Ah, yeah, ok, you’re right about that. But as to the Dutch guy, he DM’ed me the picture. It’s good.”

“Nice. Let me see.”

Simb looks at Naylon’s phone. 

“We look like that?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.”

“I know,” says Naylon and then continues, “The guy also does digital art under the tag MoBak.”

“Mobak, really? My dad used that.”

“That’s what this guy said. He said he does his art under that name for that and other reasons. But it’s Like a ghost of your dad.”

“Cool I guess”

“Do you want to see the art this MoBak did?”

“Sure.”

Naylon hands Simb his phone again.

A morphed version of the original picture looms. The bodies of he and Naylon have been realistically altered but to an excessive degree — inflated, their bodies have been puerilely turned into fantasies, crazy ridiculous superhero sized, and sexualized as well. Their heads look like knobs on the grand artificial physiques — magnificent, gargantuan, enviable.

Simb grunts. “Weird.”

“It turns me on,” Naylon confesses. “I admit I actually do miss how I was changing before. I miss how the gear made me feel. How I was changing by what Scarab was doing to me that I didn’t know. I wouldn’t mind being like Scarab and those two prancing queers. I wouldn’t mind being like your dad used to be. Using chemicals strategically to change what my body is. Having unnatural stuff in my veins having an unnatural affect on me. God, their bodies are so big. They are sculpted as crap. To have people cower at a level of power and sheer desirability like they have.”

The morph renders him and Simb as extreme actually much more so than Scarab and the others are. Naylon looks at Simb trying to gauge Simb’s reaction. Then Naylon looks back at the depiction on the phone. His eyes linger, fixed to the depiction. He doesn’t want to say it out loud, but he wouldn’t mind getting as close to that artificially morphed look as could be made real.

“Dang, Naylon,” Simb reacts, “It’s what gatewayed Mossano and Sarai! Took them down the road of Coke… Speed… Heroine… everything so bad. We’re never going that route. We’re never doing that!” Simb grabs the phone back and slides the screen back to the real picture of the two of them. He looks like he weighs 205lbs at 6’4” — all proportions, gifted slender joints, and pleasant more-than-enough-to-be- proud-of, full-ish muscle bellies.  Naylon clocks in at 205 also on his 6’1” frame. His sinewed beauty showing advantages sweetly the exact match of Simb’s.

“We look incredible, Naylon,” Simb avers, “we already look better than young men should look.”

Simb slides back to the crazily morphed photo. His eyes stick on the figures longer this time. He sees the ridiculousness of the bodies. The fantastical strength portrayed on the fictional two of them. The arms and legs literally unstoppable with size. With physical power that would be so absolute. It irritates him! It’s so stupid! His brain buzzes but he’s only going to let it mean one thing!

“So what if you liked this idea, Naylon!” he barks.

“I like the idea, Simb. I would love having the muscles i had when I re-met you. I was strong as a bull. I had muscles from roids,” Naylon purrs, “I didn’t know I was using. And I didn’t even have as much as we could one day. But I kind of want it, Simb, like I did.”

“But Mossano! But Sarai!” Simb ejects, “I won’t be like them!”

“But Scarab uses and look what he’s become,” Naylon begs. “He’s your uncle, I know, and I hope this isn’t creepy but I imagine if I could be with someone as dominant and as monstrously male as him.”

“Naylon!”

“I imagine more if that was you and me. What we would do to each other, and what we’d do. To have gargantuan bodies — hmmm, so so insanely huge — I think it’s hot. It can get me so hard, Simb. To have my body be so enormous and every last aspect of me full of ripped dense massive muscle flesh. Powerful. Wanted. Dominant. Undefeatable.”

“Naylon, enough!! He’s the exception, Naylon! He’s not the rule. You said he’s brusque and seems to treat people bad.”

“I know,” Naylon answers, “but we wouldn’t be that way. Wouldn’t have to be that way. So what if that’s him. What if we had what he had. Imagine being us as people and being as great as him physically?”

“No, no, no. He’d skip it if he could. It all depends on him now because of what my parents did and were. Just because he has to for the family business, for all those workers, for the gyms, doesn’t mean I can!”

“I know, I know,” says Naylon.

They are quiet for a minute. And then Naylon whispers, “our bodies, Simb….”  It switches to an almost moan, “imagine us vastly bigger… growing… mounting…imagine us overtaking, giantous in size… subduing Scarab.”

“Stop!” Simb shouts. He’s had enough. He wants to hear not one syllable more. “I have to get out of here for a bit!”

 

 

Simb wanders the aisles and the booths. The encounter with Dr Ridi yesterday. The morph from MoBak almost like a message from the spirit of his dad, the obsessing from Naylon just now. It swirls in his mind. He works the floor slowly. Why now? This stuff was behind him long ago. Fog occupies his brain as he browses inattentively. Life with Timona and Puma is what he thinks about. How happy they all were. “Take it easy”, was their motto, “Chi ngay!”

 

He hasn’t thought so much of Timona and Puma in a year. Hasn’t thought how perfect it was. He just wants to go back.  To sleep in his shack room. To pull out his tank pets. To laugh and tumble with Puma. To get stuffed full by Timona. To sing and laugh. To charge the waters on the jet ski.  He’s been working. Hard! Enough. It’s time to go back! 

Why was everyone trying to tell him he had a destiny so different than that. To be the royalty of bodybuilding. To stand, chest magnificent and jutted out high, and he standing in magnificent sunlighted display atop the dais with the common people all below a posing strap spotlighted for their enjoyment.

He hates what Dr Ridi had said — That he had the spirit of his parent in him.  

His dad had been The Champion. How could he, Simb, ever be that. And how could he even show his face to his uncle? His uncle knew what Simb had done. Scarab knew that Simb was to blame. And Uncle Scarab had had to sacrifice everything and shoulder the burden of all of Muscle Pride Rock since then. How could he go to Muscle Pride Rock even if that’s what Naylon seemed to want them to do. No! Simb wants to just go back to the cove…. “Puma and Timona”, he sighs.

His mind swirls as he walks. Thoughts bump around all the interior surfaces of his brain. He’s stopped noticing what he sees. He’s stopped registering where he is. So, he is a little surprised when his thoughts finally slow. He is on a stool behind a curtain in the rear of a booth that he doesn’t recognize. He hears the voices of the reps talking out front. They repeat their spiel over and over to the visitors. And Simb sits and vegges. It is only after an hour or so that he notices what they actually say. They are a muscle media company. Content is what they sell. What they are telling visitors is to download their latest documentary online — It is the life story of Mossano Bakkani. 

“It just can’t be,” Simb groans in response. How has this happened again. How is his past so insistently dogging him. It isn’t what he’d imagined. He’d left it all behind. But resignation is all he can momentarily feel. 

And now he hears the softened audio from the movie that is evidently playing out front. It is his dad’s voice. It is his dad’s deep, kind, confident, dominant, loving voice.  

 

Simb’s phone buzzes. He looks and it is a text from Naylon. “Sorry for being like that,” it says. “I’ll man the booth and close up.  I’ll just see you in the van, later.”

“Fine,” Simb thinks feeling unsettled and stirred. His emotions are a scramble, but he texts back, “Sounds good”

 

He leaves the booth. He’ll do his own thing. He needs space and just to change the scene.

As he leaves he sees what must be one of the gayer fellows from yesterday morning’s retinue. The guy greets him. He’s some kind of ambassador. He has no idea who Simb is. He invites Simb to the artificial mountain rising at the center of the conference hall. The mountain that reads Muscle Pride Rock Life. “Yes,” says Simb. He thinks, “I think it is the moment to go back home.”

He follows the gay fellow. As they near the mountain, booth space surrounds it. Orange and black festoons everything. There are countless staff in orange and black. They look stressed and anxious. Some look so stressed that they just look anxious and worn down.

The gay fellow threads through the outer rings and they approach an arch into the mountain. Inside a ramp spirals up the interior wall. As they climb, they pass forks that disappear into spaces beneath the mountains slope. Passing a larger one, Simb looks in. The two six foot tall twenty-two year olds are there. They wear nothing but minute posers. Their bodies are so jacked from consumption and high grade turbo gear that they clock in at 275lbs with no ounce of fat anywhere to be seen. The two don’t notice the passers-by. They are snorting and blowing at each other. One is backing himself up into the others naked beef. The rear one wraps his arms. He bares his teeth. He whistle-growls horny greedy fuck talk in his bud’s ear. Licks at the big man’s locks. Rocks his gear-abused pecker against gross big, haunch man glutes. 

Simb lets out a sigh. The sound interrupts the two. They notice now the audience ascending by. 

“Yeahhhrrghh,” the rear one cries. He pulls away from his mate. His arms swing down.

His fists ball, each just in front of each upper thigh. “HnnnppHhh” he exerts.

His partner is only a beat behind.

“Oohwfu-u-u-u-ck,” he says. His hands go up and clasp behind his head. He flexes a wall of torso muscle. His enormous quads advance. 

They both halve the distance they are from the ramp. They strain gigantic double biceps alternated at random intervals with immense most musculars.

They circle Simb, the dense obstructiveness of their girth pressing in on him. They are assertive, leering. It feels scavenging. 

Simb breaks free disoriented, annoyed but not fully able to be unafraid.

 

The gay guide doesn’t seem to register the discomfort. And feyly, obliviously, says, “You are going to meet, Mr Thailand, can you imagine that?” He pulls Simb away from the oozing slutty testosterone of Shen and Ban to continue on their way.

 

At the peak of the ramp, a wide platform opens. It’s ringed by the inside face of the artificial points of the mountain peak.  The floor is flat wood panels. There are plastic and steel desks. Scarab sits at one, immense in a tailored expensive suit, busy on a cell phone and tapping on a laptop. A row of small glass bottles line the left side of his working surface.  On the right side of the surface is a black clamshell style styrofoam container spilling over with food. A fork is planted in its center. Orts of grains, strands and crumbs of fuel scatter between the clamshell and Scarab’s elbow.

 

The femme guide tells Simb to wait.  

 

Simb watches his uncle. Scarab snarls into the phone. He attacks the keyboard with typing. He glowers at assistants which approach and retreat. He leers at the guide. Randomly, Scarab’s eyes eventually fall on Simb. There’s a micro-second pause to the growling and rapid typing before it commences again at the same pace. But then there are cast over glances stolen as they can be.

Scarab brings the tumult to a halt before long. He stands, though stand is not the word, he rumbles into elevation like a god of the earth arising into the air.  And whether it is purposeful or not, the suit shows every way that his muscles swell on his physique. It is utterly plain where he bulges and cinches.

Where most males would be described as walking to Simb, Scarab quakes toward the stranger he sees, and very much likes the sight of.

“Ah… what have we here,” he says to Simb, “an unusually beautiful, tall, slim, little young admirer, it looks like.”

Simb feels small in his Uncle’s presence. He feels both like the devastated and ashamed child that had betrayed his dad but also, in the here and now, feels like a naive wannabe gym bro inferior to this most perfect incarnation of roided capabilities. He realizes he is slumping into himself and tries to bring himself erect. To raise his lean but sinewed chest, to hold his head high.

Scarab sees the effect his great testosteroned massiveness is seeming to have on this morsel of dick-equipped suppleness.

“You young, tasty things, worshipping me from afar, when you could do it right here and now,” Scarab giggles. Without changing his posture, Scarab tenses and the shoulders of his suit snap tight to the domes of his delts, his shirt front sucks down upon the ripples of his abs, and his pants’s seat and legs creak around the stadium column dimensions of his thighs and ass.

“Worship me, faglet,” he says.

Simb is barely audible as he puzzledly says, “what?”

“Worship me, pretty boy faglet,” Scarab repeats again his teeth spreading across his face. 

Simb whimpers nothing but confused, “Worship you?”

“Only if you like,” says the behemoth. The smile is everything now. “Most want to.”

“I am indebted to you and embarrassed before you. I’m confused by you and in front of you. I’m troubled but obedient,” says Simb.

“What are you talking about beautiful,” Scarab purrs. He is close to Simb. His fingers are lifting locks of Simb’s hair. He is looking in Simb’s eyes in a way uncles ought not.

“You’ve done…. done everything…. everything for my parents,” Simb stammers.

“Your? ….parents?…. ,” Scarab cautiously enunciates. “Do I know you?,” he asks. “Who would they be?”

“Uncle Scarab! I’m talking about Mossano. I’m talking about Sarai I’m talking about my mom and dad! I’m Simb,” the nineteen year old says.

“Them!!!” Scarab roars

“Oh yes! All I’ve done…..” 

Scarab is not still now. He stalks the flat area of the hidden peak. His mass rises and falls.

“All… I’ve… done….” he spits out. He’s unsettled. This is not some beautiful plaything. This is Mossano and Sarai’s boy! Look at him. His natural proportions. His beautiful height. The model good looks.  

“Simb did it!” Scarab immediately thinks corruptedly.

“All…I’ve… done…. because OF… YOU!” he thunders at Simb. “What you did to your father. The burden you’ve put on me,” Scarab growls and roars.

“You are NOT welcome HERE!!!”

He cuffs Simb with his hand. But the tren, the hgh, the anabolic loads of roids have created not just the ridiculous silhouette of monstrous obscene muscle, they’ve created the extreme-encompassing power of it too. With the single blow, Scarab gets an erection seeing the 205 pound lad elevate into the air and fly away. The adversary tumbles onto the ramp, rolls away, disappears far from sight, in what location Scarab simply doesn’t care. 

Simb is crushed. Mortified by his failings, living what he has done more immediately than he has since he was fifteen.

He lies defeated and invisible.

Which is when he hears the two poser-strutting fuck boys talking in the side chamber. “Remember how we planted those drugs?” Is what they say amid other unheard mumbling.

And then from up the ramp, Simb hears his uncle’s voice, not knowing it is being overheard, “Oh, dear boy, if you ever realized that it was I who had really done what was done.”

[QuoteTheRaven]

CHAPTER SEVEN — TWO YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS LATER

 

The corrupting of the IFBB’s Thai Chapter is widely known five years into Scarab’s reign. It seems so unnecessary as the androgenic transformation has risen such a snorting, sick beast of a body for Scarab that his rule would be absolute anyway.

 

Still, the judging panel of the Mr. Thai contest is a credit to Scarab’s cheating wile. Its members, placed by him into their seats, include, among others, the police commissioner’s secret male lover, Shen’s uncle, Ban’s gay porn film director, Dr. Ridi, and the regional director of the gym equipment supply wholesaler that stocks Muscle Rock Pride Gyms.

Yet, now, as the panel sits considering the final, perhaps its composition will prove more fortuitous to others than Scarab would have ever tolerated.

Scarab radiates on stage flanked by Ban and Shen, with other competitors arrayed further out. Scarab exhibitions the peeled exposure of every one of his uncountable muscle fibers. He heaves fifty pounds heavier than the twenty four year olds at his side.  His poser is so obscene it is almost literally a g-string, padded to an unreal degree in his groin.

It is minutes from the completion of the final call out round and the certain re-crowning of Scarab as reigning title holder. It has Scarab delirious and euphoric in his absolute impossibility.

The hopefuls jostle under the lights while the announcers’ voices bathe them in fawning praise. 

Yet at the back of the darkened amphitheater a stir begins to be detectable. It is local audience members who notice first. But the disruption grows. The wider room begins to be distracted. Until even members of the panel begin to steal glances in the direction of the noise. 

Only the competitors and announcers seem not to notice.

So it is, that when one of the announcers in their nattering, says, “And there they are… perhaps the best competitors who’ve ever sought the title,” a voice from the rear of the audience calls out, loud and powerful.

“All who ought be in contention for the title are not posing on stage!”

Members of the audience hear. The announcers hear. The competitors hear. The panel hears.

And a light comes up in the aisle in the middle of it all. A hulking Naylon towers in a Terry cloth robe. His face is cavernous with diet and deep brown with dye. From the bottom hem of the his garment protrude his shaved and spray tanned sinewed knees and calves.

“This is highly unorthodox,” says the gym equipment rep to the other judges.

“It should not be allowed,” says Shen’s uncle. 

“Let him show himself. All should contend” scratches out Dr Ridi’s ancient voice. A hot microphone picks up his words. He is an accomplice to Naylon’s appearance. 

An announcer’s voice comes on trying to get things under control, “Sorry for the slight disruption, folks…. All the competitors are officially on the stage…”

And then Naylon’s hands loosen the belt at his waist and the robe peels from his bowling-balled shoulders and drops to the ground. 

The audience gasps. Their breath is literally sucked out of their chests.

Naylon looks a god brought to life. His impossibly delted expanse soars to sixty three inches around. His waist chokes in at thirty two. His thighs are an unfellable thirty three inches. And each arm measures over twenty inches just hanging at his side. 

His smile explodes across his face. Naylon slings his hips to the side. He girdles his abs into a panel of pure cobbled armor. He raises curled fists to his ears in a blatant display of size that almost rivals Scarab’s.

The audience goes wild. 

“All should contend!” shouts a bro voice from near the spectacle which is Naylon grown to 288 pounds. He is as handsome as any of the biggest international movie stars but as built as an elephant.

“Yeah,” shouts another. And then “Contend!” 

Some one next to him echos back, “All should!”

And then a chant starts and grows. First a few, then almost all. It’s a round with half taking one phrase and the other half the other. “All should!…” goes the call.  “Contend!…” comes the reply. Until the amphitheater is drowned with the repetition, “All should!…  Contend!….    All should!….  Contend!…”

It fills the amphitheater over and over.

 

The competitors are halted. Frozen. 

 

The announcers are largely at a loss for words. “Well…. hmm…” and “Gosh folks”… and finally, “The judging panel has an unprecedented decision to make.”

 

The panel debates. Tempers rise. Some are staunch on each side. And then the gym equipment supplier finally taps the microphone with his nail. The room quiets. With a projected sense of calm, the gym equipment supplier explains, “Our contest is not tested. No advantage that the others don’t have could be brought by any man who mounts the stage now versus before. The purity of our title is meant for bestowal on the greatest evolution of man. The panel judges that all should contend. This man shall join the lineup. But as caution, the panel has seen this muscle man with clear eyes and wants to set expectations that you’ll all agree this gentleman is not big enough at what looks like only two hundred sixty pounds to take the title from the lead.”

 

The audience erupts with applause. All the bro dudes shout stuff. A lot of the straight girls eye him.

 

Naylon proceeds to the stage. As hulking as he is, he is up on the lip like a cat. He strides to the floodlights. The bright exposure is a revelation. Size is one thing but his muscle connections are a gift.  His pecs dome his neck. His lats wing out. His quadricep bellies fill high along his groin on to his hip.  

He spins to the audience and lays it all bare. The roars are exuberant.

And then Scarab is beside him dwarfing him. 

Scarab is agressive, moving into Naylon’s space, grappling and pushing him about.  The aestheticism is lesser but the pure mass is excessive. 

“Nayyylonn,” the monster drips with derision.

“I’ve become quite the muscle man, haven’t I, you crooked fuck,” Naylon utters back.

Naylon writhes gracefully and steps into the clear reaching his arms up into a great Vee. His abdomen is torched with ripping paper thin skin. His poser arches with a beautiful porn-y endowment, his legs are long incredibly muscled things.

Scarab stomps back closer. He squeezes a double biceps tilting forward. The density of the volume of muscle necessary to weigh 350 pounds is solely obscene.

The crowd is swinging toward the mega heavyweight on the stage. 

“Scarab… scarab… scarab…” many are shouting.

 

The announcers come on. “It looks like we may be close to a time for a decision.”

 

Naylon sees himself overshadowed more and more. But he says to Scarab, “You are going down!”

Scarab bowls into Naylon making him stumble and land into the ground.

“Not by the likes of you,” he growls and proceeds to strike one arousing pose after another.  

He hears the fervor of the crowd igniting. 

He lifts his arms into great double bis. Their weight alone is almost 75 pounds. He wants this. He needs this. He is addicted to this. This thing that belongs to him.  To being abjectly monstrous. To being a fucking God.

 

But as he expects the volume of the audience to further build, a weird stuttering begins instead. And then a softening. And then it is as if every breath is held. He doesn’t understand it. This audience is his. He is a fucking roidpigged grotesque monster.

 

And then he hears a voice.

“Uncle,” it says, “Simb is here.”

Behind the magnificent Scarab where he stands pumped, mammothed, and with his glistening oil and sweat dripping, an ominous silhouette begins to arise.  

It’s disorienting to the fans who can’t comprehend the shadow, who’ve always believed in the laws of biology. Who’ve come to consider Scarab the ultimate that could ever be.

But, now, behind Scarab, stepping into the circle of light, appears Simb.

He is six foot four and almost four hundred pounds. Seventy inches circle his chest. Each of his gargantuan thighs is just under forty inches. His gorilla long arms’ biceps stretch the tape at 28 inches apiece.

No one in the audience ever thought they would ever have seen anything like this.

Simb knows how mindfucked they must all be. He and Naylon have been dosing black magic concoctions that Dr Ridi has developed just for them. They’ve been on never before conceived primal potions, molecular configurations that have torched what androgenics ever previously meant. They have been eating unstoppingly like beasts taken from the jungle and fed in captivity. And he has melded with the iron, lifting it in quantities to defy the mind — more and more plates, and bars and size. Simb now literally approaches the image of the muscle morphed photo that had made Naylon so aroused. This is him now. Indescribably alive with the thundering pulses of strength and pure power he has had to have been given to understand how it feels.

He is to reign. There is a destiny here. And consuming what others cannot have in order to weigh four hundred pounds of distilled and purified muscle is him. It’s what is meant for him. Or whether it is meant for him or not it’s what he does to himself, will keep doing to himself, will keep for himself, will make of himself. 

He sees the fear in Scarab’s eyes as he approaches. His uncle, muscle man, shies away.

Simb is the young lord. With his massive hand he catches Scarab by the nape. And then his other hand is in Scarab’s erect little groin. With a sweep of all Simb’s muscular beauty scarab is over Simb’s head in mid-air. Scarabs limbs wave desperately while a dazzling carnivorous smile breaks out on Simb’s perrfectly skinned face.  

Simb pumps Scarab into the air like so many easy military presses. Simb’s back is the unholy landing deck of an aircraft carrier. His torso is a billboard of rising highlands. His legs are stanchions of the very earth. His posing suit paints a nearly invisible line over his hips, before hammocking the exquisite bulge that is the gift of a true monster dick passed down and soaring as it arches in his groin.

He looks at the crowd. Every pair of eyes is in love. How could they not be in love with this unreality he has unleashed.

He roars. And raising Scarab high in a final exhibitioning flow, Simb throws Scarab like a bale of hay. Scarab knocks into Shen and Ban and all three topple from the stage into the pit below.

“Roar!!!!!!!!!” Simb decries swinging into a rotating three quarter back pose and the panel of judges erupts with pure admiration. The representative of the equipment wholesaler grabs the panel mic a last time. Giddily, he announces that Simb has won.

Simb Bakkani is Mr. Thailand. 

Simb’s head rises. His glorious divine 28”arms reach to the heavens. His monstrous muscled 54” ass is nearly bare. His inhuman gorilla 39.5” legs flare, and the monument of his 70” pecs inflate and lift. He feels the power of a thousand ancestors tidally flowing through all this that he has become. 

He is the rightfully elevated king of Muscle Pride Rock and he RooaaAaaAAAARRRRRRSSSSSS!

 

The End